An Apology Is Never Enough
by Consulting Angel
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock goes back to the flat to see how things are, not planning on seeing anyone, but John gets back earlier than expected. T for drugs.


"All I'm saying is I'm worried about him," Mycroft starts. "You should be - "

"I know," Sherlock snaps. "I know."

"He thinks you're dead, Sherlock. I believe you're failing to fully comprehend the consequences of your actions."

Sherlock stands and snatches his bow off the table between them. "And what do you think going back will do to him?" He runs the rosin along the bow as he paces within the small confines of the room.

Mycroft shrugs. "It couldn't be any worse than it is now." He starts to flip through a folder. "He's limping again. Ella put him on another antidepressant three weeks ago. He complains of nightmares each and every time he meets her. Never says what they are, of course, but we all know. And he's been taking after you, Sherlock." He pauses to let it sink in. "He's been into the drugs you left."

Sherlock puts his violin on his shoulder and draws the bow across the strings in an arpeggio to start a piece he's been favouring of late - Bach's Chaccone. "I know," he says again.

* * *

He's made up his mind within a fortnight. And on a rainy Friday morning, he's watching John get into a cab for another appointment with Ella. That's two this week, something that's beginning to be not as uncommon as Sherlock would like. Still, it gives him the opportunity he needs.

Mrs. Hudson is out with a friend for a few hours, so he doesn't feel rushed. He doesn't have to pick the lock - no one's bothered to change it in two and a half years. He pauses just inside the door. Nothing's changed, really. There's Mrs. Hudson's recent cold, of course, and the dog her friend recently picked up, but that's not anything too out of the ordinary. He makes his way up the steps. The fifth one creaks, just like it always does.

When he sets foot in their - John's? - flat, his first stop is his room. Mycroft was right, of course. The box is still there, but there's clear signs of recent use. He eases the top off, not sure what he wants to find. He's able to breathe a sigh of relief, though: even if he's been using, at least he's being careful about it - sterilising the needles, and only minute doses compared to what some of Sherlock's have been in the past.

He replaces the box and continues to John's room. The limp must be worse than he thought, he realises upon seeing that the bed has not been slept in for weeks, if not months, though the latter is more likely. In fact, there is no sign of anyone having lived in the upstairs bedroom for about two years. This makes Sherlock stop in his tracks for a moment. Of course he knew it would hurt John. He just had thought - he had hoped - that it wouldn't have been quite so immediate and dramatic.

Back down the steps. It's more obvious now – he's been sleeping on the sofa. The skull is still on the mantle. Its stare bores into Sherlock. "Shut up," he tells it. Then he climbs up on a chair and pulls the old violin down from the bookcase.

He plucks the A string and winces. Never has he heard an instrument more out of tune. He takes a painful minute to make sure everything's still working and tunes the strings.

It's half past ten. John should be back in forty minutes. Sherlock decides he has enough time, and he begins to play.

He doesn't notice it, but they're John's favourites, the songs he's playing. He stands in front of the window and closes his eyes and just plays, and allows everything to wash over him.

It isn't until he hears the door unlock that he remembers why he's never done this before. His eyes fly open and he freezes in place. Stay? Leave? Hide? The footsteps are coming up the stairs - the distinguished limp and cane on each step. Three to go. Two. One.

John pushes the door open to see an empty room. The violin doesn't escape his notice, however. He picks it up off the sofa and holds it to his shoulder. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the ghosts of Sherlock's songs. Then he drops the instrument on the sofa and heads for Sherlock's room.

Sherlock sees him come in. John can't see him, of course, from where he is behind the door, and so he sits down on the bed and pulls out the box once more. He preps everything and sets it out on his knee.

Sherlock looks on. It's too much, he thinks as John mixes the powder with a little water. What if this is because of me - because of the violin? I shouldn't have come back. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"John." His lips finally move but no sound comes out. "John." Barely a whisper.

John looks up. He's hearing things. He must be. It's the only explanation.

Then he hears Sherlock's voice in his head - "Wrong, John. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts." He shakes his head and picks up the needle.

Sherlock bites his lip. He weighs his options. Then he eases the door open, and it creaks.

The next moment seems to stretch on for an eternity.

"Sherlock." John's voice cracks over the name. He doesn't look up, but he does set the needle down.

Sherlock approaches John slowly; he doesn't know exactly how the man will react. He stops a step away.

"You're not dead," John says slowly. There's no hint of emotion behind it, positive or negative.

"No." He waits.

John stands up, letting the needle fall off his knee, and it crunches under his foot. He cautiously looks up and finally lets his eyes meet Sherlock's. And then he breaks. He folds himself into Sherlock and doesn't try to look strong.

And Sherlock? He stands there and wraps his arms around John, and as his friend gasps for breath between sobs, he realises just how fragile people are.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
